


The Ins and Outs of Music

by Merciless_Interests



Category: Friday Night Funkin' (Video Game), Pico's School (Video Game), Spooky Month (Short Films - Sr Pelo)
Genre: Assassination, Bisexuality, Demons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Dates, Gun Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love Language, M/M, Mental Instability, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Break Up, Rap Battles, Reconciliation, Recovery, Schizophrenia, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, Suggestive Themes, Swearing, Vandalism, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 16:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merciless_Interests/pseuds/Merciless_Interests
Summary: After several years of uploading top-notch music albums online, -- as a faceless composer -- paired with a part-time job as a local Record Shop’s Cashier, Keith’s financially set. However, the young-adult still feels miles apart from any feeling of self-fulfillment. He’s still unable to join a basic conversation without his words dissolving into incomprehensible, stuttering gibberish. He can hardly keep any meaningful relationships either. He’s hopeless. It’s only a matter of time before his musical career comes crashing down alongside his already absent social-life....But when Keith falls into an ‘embarrassingly’ uncontrolled nervous break-down in an attempt to speak to a gorgeous young woman, she displays a level of patience with him he didn’t remember existing.The young musician suddenly finds himself making more wishes and taking more risks.
Relationships: Boyfriend (Friday Night Funkin')/Pico (Pico's School), Boyfriend/Girlfriend (Friday Fight Funkin')/Pico (Pico's School), Boyfriend/Girlfriend (Friday Night Funkin')
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39





	The Ins and Outs of Music

**Author's Note:**

> To make things clear, this is my little take on Friday Night Funkin's story! A little something littered with character interactions; lore-bits, references, sprinkled with countless headcanons of my own! I won't be ending this at Week 6, definitely expect more updates as we receive additional weeks! This story will absolutely be on the lengthier side since I really wanna devote time to fleshing-out each character! I'll try to update around once/twice a week! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**_Gettin’ freaky on a Friday night, yeah!_ **

**A** pair of shimmering, bright-red headphones recurringly bumped against short n' slick cyan wedges spilling out of an equally vibrant red cap. Lively hands flipped said front-facing cap backward, before resuming a rhythmic tapping on an activated laptop. Tap. T-T-Tap. Tap. In masterful synchronization with those tapping fingers came a rather flamboyant beat-boxing, the unusually higher-pitch melting into the stock-chorus erupting from the song. A triumphant smile curled upon the flushed cheeks of the beat-boxing composer, a flickering flurry of hand gestures aligning with the roughly finalized composition.

"It's damn fire," The composer sighed, as fluttering hands engulfed him in soothingly cool gusts of wind. However, those on-going motions only accelerated, flapping limbs threatening to abandon the song's time signature. He's **so** not going to get a **damn** thing done tonight. Rhythmic pumping of the musician's heart substituted a blaring alarm, practically urging him to save the document before inevitable goofy grooviness ensues. It only took one reluctant finger to envelop the blisteringly bright screen in swipes, swimming through populations worth of bland, unnamed folders. 

A pair of baggy, pitch-black eyes glittered upon spotting a multi-colored folder, returning the digital music-sheets to 'BF: Gettin’ Freaky'. That’s **_so_ ** getting uploaded. While a dazzling emerald-green replenished an uninhabited, white bar, Keith continued jamming away to his fathomless musical goodness. All until an alarmingly loud 'ping' within his lap blasted, pulling the nastiest flinch from him too. Harsh blinking followed suit, numerous limbs briefly locking into place. He could've sworn he kept that on silent. Keith groaned, momentarily pinching the thinned-out, reddened bridge of his nose. 

That isn't getting an answer. Not until it **needed** one. How could he respond anyway? By shoving the deactivated device into his back pocket, the most plausible way to handle stressors. Besides, it'd be mind-numbing to view messages rather than give in to his best composition yet. And just as the imaginary chorus of enlivened party-animals shouted for a celebration from within glittering headphones, a pounding resounded from Keith's chest. 

A swift kick-off of the bed launched Keith to the center of his living-space, compressing one of the multitudinous socks scattered about the room. He winced, all before smoothing his eyes shut. That's gross, but it's something to handle later, right? It's not even that big of a problem, at least not hulking enough to quit dancing over. Snaps of reverberant volumes bounced from Keith's fingers, further restoring the ever-growing tap of his foot. _That’s better._

A controlled wagging left two index-fingers, guiding the dancing music-developer from one pile of clothing to the next. The sheen of bright-blue nails propelled slitted rays of marmalade sunlight, peppering the room in a popping series of multi-colored dots. Periodically, an illuminated, bright-red sneaker would punt an assortment of unwashed clothing through the air, often leading to a distant crash into dusty belongings. 

A tilted family portrait? _To the floor._ A trophy from a high-school wrestling match? _To the floor_ , the gold-painted figurine might even shatter too. Hell, even disorganized piles of music sheets fell victim to darting clothing; ultimately creating a cacophony fallen on distracted ears. T _o the floor_ , faced the wrath of a twirling hat. 

**Go! Go! Go! Go!**

Clammy fingers double-tapped the side of headphones, its cushions practically slapping eardrums at near maximum volumes. A sharp grin lifted soft-pink cheeks, once content crowds now expelling roars abundant of amplified excitement. Samples of bone-chillingly cold gusts passed swaying curtains, knocking beads of sweat off of glistening, lightning-blue hair. The infrequent passing of coral-colored lights against clamped eyelids mimicked that of activated phone flashlights, swaying harmoniously to the beat of a fresh tune. Even the repetitious slapping of a bass, embodying the thunderous volume of on-stage speakers, pushed to the absolute limit for the sake of thousands. Wouldn’t it be great? 

Keith’s vigorous compositions spilled out of pulsating speakers, encouragement for every member of his rambunctious audience to arise from shimmering seats. Distant twinkling from glittered outfits aligning with the night’s stars owning the evening, creating an unforeseen galaxy only lovers of his craft would experience. An infinite space only his pure-black eyes could permanently contain, momentary glory as a result of his music. That fulfilling pound resounded from within his chest once more, influencing a quaver within his already sweaty hands. It’d be the next big step. Unveil the long-lasting mask of anonymity, leading to a virtually fantastical life of successful record deals, mountainous piles of cash raining from above for decades to come. 

The apartment complex? _Gone with the wind._ Part-time jobs? _Gone with the wind._ Nothing more than greatness ahead, with the only task remaining, is walking into the piercing lime-light of an outdoor stage. Simple, right? He’d take center-stage, blowing imaginary kisses to countless individuals, knees skidding him to the furthest edge. A palm slapped the base of a microphone stand, fingers curling into a tight clench. Sneakers clapped the stage from an upward flip, lightning-blue locks bouncing as the figure stood straight. He leaned into the microphone, darkness persistent as he readied his voice for projection. 

... **You got what it takes?**

Keith couldn’t utter anything beyond a gasp. 

The microphone quivered within a tighter grasp, a slight ring erupting from distant speakers. _No, don’t do this._ Chapped lips lightly parted, only for a strained exhale to be projected across the stadium. A shrill, high-pitched ringing passed once more. Stained teeth roughly pricked cracked lips, easily extracting darkened droplets of blood across his mouth’s rim. _Any little move he made caused that ringing._ The once rhythmic nature of the speakers finally slowed to a low, lifeless shudder. 

Just _say_ something, anything. Another excruciating shriek left a wobbling microphone, rigid hands now gripping the musician’s throat. Chipped nails nearly punctured the fattening veins in his neck, hands tightly clenched in hopes of anything understandable slipping out. Something of value for his audience to discern, anything, even the slightest pleads for rescue from his self-inflicted suffering, it’d be something. Just anything. Anything to stop this silence.

Seconds became minutes, Keith’s inaudible begs only viewed by blurred faces of a stilled audience, most engaged in hushed conversation. Whether it be the occasional shift from unamused fans to awfully forced chuckles; his nonexistent voice virtually drowned amongst crowds of amalgamated volumes. Obscured dialogues swiftly skittered upon the barren stage, Keith’s head pounding as comments he’d never hear suddenly became discernable. Humid hands clapped throbbing ears, only to mildly muffle comments birthed within his mind. _People like him aren’t built for the world of music._

Keith’s fist clenched, managing a hiss into the microphone, only for it to screech in retaliation. _He shouldn’t have the money from people he can’t even speak to._ Clouded nails retreated within tightened fists, jamming into wrinkled palms with every infrequent quaver of twitching arms. _People like him shouldn’t exist._ Strewed voices infiltrated uncupped ears, sounds morphing into a series of deafening scribbles, threatening to tear away at the remnants of his mind. Keith gasped, a sharp breath searing his lungs, his eyes snapping open in an immediate response. 

Only for an entirely faceless crowd to stare back. 

_Since people like him aren’t built for a damn thing._

A shrill scream remained locked in Keith’s throat, scratching the interior to pieces in the process. Sneakers screeched with quickened back-steps, further blurring the already obscured faces of a once boisterous audience. Unclenched hands slapped against his clothed thighs, leaving behind hardly visible handprints of pure sweat. All vision entirely was slowly blanketed into an impenetrable void, sounds outside of one’s panicked breathing ceased to exist. Keith winced, eyelids fluttering as his audience merged into colorless bundles of nothingness. 

He didn’t even notice he slipped, likely falling into it all at once. 

**_Drop the beat, drop it! Drop the beat, drop it!_ **

Keith flung upward clutching a bloodied nose, now whimpering into his sweaty body, curled up on a bone-chillingly freezing floor. Dried fluid clogged his nostrils, evoking an effortful coughing fit, forcing his hands to slap against tiled flooring. _You’d never be out there, get a grip._ Fingers traced a ground with consistent indentation, paired with the occasional series of crumbs, which often escaped carelessly carried plates. A gaping gaze narrowed, sliding upward to the sight of soft, twinkling light emanating from the forefront of a stove. Digital, segmented numbers lightly illuminated the shadowy kitchen, displaying a time that prompted a drawn-out grumble from Keith. _6:45am_ . _It just had to be one of those nights, huh?_

A morning meant for early-work attendance, yet, he’s plopped back against the floor, picking away at those faded thumbs. _God, he’d give anything to lie like this for days._ It’s not like he’d have anything to smile about today, either. Keith leaned onto his side, doubling over immediately, hands compressing the sides of his pounding skull. Not with a migraine **this** killer. He hadn’t remembered one of his little episodes exploding over nothing before, nothing worthwhile, at least. Just a new development to stress over. Circular motions sloppily massaged seemingly compact temples, synchronizing with the repetitious rocking of Keith’s body. He didn’t even bother adjusting the volume of his under-charged headphones, as a slow, rather depressive sample track worked at soothing him. 

A delicate buzzing resounded in his pocket, a cloaked series of lights signifying the reactivation of his phone. Absentmindedly, Keith pulled the device from the depths of oversized sweatpants, double-tapping the screen before entering an unusually short pin. Upon accessing his phone, his expression scrunched at the sight of two, bright-orange notifications, decorated with familiar names painted in attention-grabbing bold. Just a quick little reminder, that today wasn’t about him. Hesitant fingers clicked a rippling, orange application, unveiling messages ignored from yesterday’s bothersome mishap. Keith pinched the mid-section of his eyes, successfully readjusting his horrendously murky vision. _He’s a piece of shit for that, honestly._

A strained sigh passed his lips, slitted eyes desiring to disintegrate the first message. 

_‘Morning, Keith! If you’re tired today, feel free to stay home! Please rest!’_

How does one repeat themselves for the _one-hundredth time_ without saying a thing? Keith flipped up onto his feet, simultaneously compressing his temples as a distraction from his thundering migraine. Several stiffened fingers glided up beyond tear-dried features, before combing through numerous clumps of disheveled, lightning-blue locks. For the third time in five minutes, cleared eyesights morphed indiscernible splotches of color into fully-identifiable objects of a rather crowded apartment. Counters practically spilling with unpacked spices, cooking-utensils, and timeworn cookbooks alike faced the wrath of reckless hands. _Whenever he needed something, he’d always leave it in the shittiest spot._

It took several plastic jars of ingredients crashing against the floor, but he finally found pain-killers he’d neglected to open since last week. A satisfactory ‘ _pop_ ’ erupted from simply squeezing the cylindrical container, its miniature cap now rattling in shrinking circles on the floor. Fingers raced against the gradually intensifying pound of his head, only pausing when a chalky, white pill met bright-blue nails. Keith gulped, swallowing anything but medicine. _God, he could already feel nausea._ He’s never been good with medicine, no matter the shape. Either left him collapsing in public-stalls or doubling the number of awkward stares. Getting to work without it actually got tempting with every passing second. 

A gentle buzz left his phone. _He’s not ruining a friend’s day with his funk._ Keith practically inhaled two-pills without even checking. However, after guzzling nearly two whole bottles of water to terminate unbearable dryness, fingers double-tapped the notification. Countless colorful hearts complimented a needlessly sweet n’ short message, planted above an image of two giggling children. On any other morning, he’d send a miniature clip of himself dancing foolishly. _That stupid-ass dance, that’s admittedly fun to do._ However, all he could muster was a short-lived squint, eyes briefly skimming the message before an inevitable clenched fist.

_‘Morniiiing, Keith! Skid n’ Pump wanna see ya’ soon. If you’re tired after work, no worries!’_

It’s just the _slightest_ bit frustrating when good people give you the option to treat them like fuckin’ garbage. Keith hissed, jamming a wireless charger into his device, right before chucking it onto a distant couch. Headphones following soon after. He jammed his hands into lint-filled pockets, turning away just to start kicking past bodies of fully-packaged boxes, practically covered in more dust than tape. Several tumbled over, jumbled CDs clattered loudly from within, excessive roughness likely furthering their unkempt condition. _Those really should’ve been burned by now._ Eventually, ringed fingers twisted a dripping knob, activating a soothing rush of steaming, temperate water. 

A minuscule smile tugged the corners of his mouth, as he nearly launched out of his clothes just to step inattentively. _There’s nothing a good shower can’t fix._ Narrow streams of dulled-out reds swirled around the drain, returning a blissful gaze to one of neutrality. Running water continued splashing against blemished limbs, a mixture of sparkling suds upon gliding hands cleansed his limbs of anything noticeable. Droplets soon ‘ _plinked_ ’ against the tiled-flooring of a clouded room moments later, eventually falling into the drain of a murky sink. The sink’s counters were entirely submerged in hair-products, the contradictory sight of bandages upon a make-up palette catching Keith’s gaze. 

Washed-out, baggy eye-lids swiftly blended in after a few simplistic dabs of color, while nail-markings were tightly bundled within rolls of wrapped bandages. Ultimately, a long-sleeved, black-shirt -- topped with a white, prohibition t-shirt -- denied any possibility of eyes prying at lines of white painted red. _It’s nothing important._ One day, any meaningless episodes generated by the most nonsensical sewage wouldn’t exist anyway. Just going through the motions, blasting the proper tunes, carried him throughout lengthy troubles fine enough. Keith grunted, ramming his foot into a particularly heavy box, blowing a dull raspberry in response. _Yeah, one day._

Keith plucked his belongings from the dimly-lit couch, pocketing an assortment of potential needs, from crumpled dollar-bills to hardly-functioning pens. All that remained, a collection of keys, a fully-charged phone, and a pair of shimmering, bright-red headphones. Cushions soon slapped against his ears, receiving a small smirk due to soothingly soft impact. _It’s time to get in the zone._ In mere seconds, Keith’s fingers raced amongst a multitudinous list of compositions, picking an upbeat classic from the 80s: Urban Fragments. He strutted towards his apartment’s exit, pausing to dramatically lip-sync with the vibrant, invigorating voice pouring from the song. 

“...Let’s get funkin’,” Keith chuckled emptily, wishing he’d close the door on a finger for making such a garbage joke. 

Instead, tipped fingers rhythmically tapped the sides of headphones, re-welcoming Keith into a flamboyant plane that encouraged anything but thoughts.


End file.
